


Surface Tension

by mulberry_kit



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Complicated Relationships, Crying, Dissociation, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Reference Suicide Attempt, M/M, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Smoking, The Lonely Fear Entity (The Magnus Archives), Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, canon-typical complicated relationships with mortality, first fic, ok i hope i tagged everything well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:07:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27538864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mulberry_kit/pseuds/mulberry_kit
Summary: It’s been getting more difficult, lately. Jon doesn’t sleep, doesn’t eat - makes it quite clear he doesn’t want to. They snap at each other often. Jon’s tone slips harsh and caustic, an echo of a dynamic they both know they’ve moved past. Martin drifts after they fight, sometimes. He’ll sit silently in the kitchen for hours, or go on walks that last for days. When he resurfaces, Jon will apologize. Martin will apologize back. They don’t look at each other when they do it and they don’t talk about it again.Even now, as entangled as they are, more present than either Jon or Martin has felt in days; neither can shake the feeling that they’re losing each other.--Heed the tags!
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 5
Kudos: 65





	Surface Tension

The moment Martin enters the cabin, nudging the door open with a hip, he is accosted by the acrid tang of tobacco in the air. He sighs. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Jon’s picked the habit back up with a fervor. Martin hates it and Jon knows he hates it. After the third or fourth time Jon found himself getting ushered to the door by a huffy Martin when he so much as looked at his lighter, Jon had promised to start smoking outside. Clearly it hadn’t stuck.

“Jon, we’ve talked about this. Could you please move outside? You know I don’t like it when you smoke in the house,” Martin calls out, only mildly annoyed as he slips his shoes off and adjusts his grip on the bags of fresh produce he cradles in each arm. There’s no answer. 

“Jon, I know you can hear me.”

Martin’s words are swallowed up by the house and when it becomes clear that silence is the only response he’s getting, his exasperation quickly crystallizes into panic. His head is filled with visions of Elias grinning, sharp and cold, or Daisy unhinged, teeth and nails bloody. The bursting bags of groceries slip from his arms, sending food sprawling across the linoleum floor of their modest kitchen.

“Jon?” he calls yet again, voice tinted with a frantic edge.

‘God, please don’t let me be alone again,’ he thinks. 

Martin careens down the hallway opening door after door and he can feel the chill of The Lonely seeping into his limbs with each empty room, swears he can feel Lukas’ broad hands at the base of his skull, closing around his throat, seizing his lungs and squeezing.

It can’t have been more than a minute, but it feels like Martin has spent hours scouring the house for Jon before he finally finds him in the bathroom. Jon is seated on the tile floor; lanky, haggard, and gaunt as ever. He’s surrounded by the shattered remnants of the homely mirror that used to be mounted above the sink. The back of his head rests on the cabinet doors beneath the sink and his forearms rest across the tops of his knees where they are drawn up loosely towards his chest. Jon’s eyes are unfocused and staring — like Jon isn’t quite in his body. In one hand, he holds a lit cigarette, noxious and fuming, in the other a knife. It’s a long, wicked-looking thing, one that Martin hasn’t seen before. The safe house is littered with weapons and Martin can’t go a day without finding one stashed away somewhere clever. Jon doesn’t stir at his sudden appearance in the doorframe, but Martin’s initial cold shock of panic thaws nonetheless at finding Jon alive and, blissfully, alone. 

Martin’s relief is short-lived, however, as he registers blood on Jon and the floor around him. He resists the urge to run to Jon, to pull him to his chest or grab his arms and shake him back to himself or clutch at his face and yell at him and ask him what the hell happened and kiss him and kiss him and kiss him. Instead, he pads over slowly and quietly, as if he were approaching a frightened animal. He doesn’t want to startle Jon. 

Jon lets Martin crouch next to him. First order of business, Martin slips the knife from Jon’s grip. It follows with no resistance. Next, he reaches for the cigarette. Jon acknowledges his presence for the first time by jerking his arm just out of Martin’s hesitant reach. Martin recoils his own arm just as quickly at the sudden movement.

“Jon, can you put the cigarette out please?” Martin asks, throat so constricted the simple request can barely squeeze past his lips.

Before complying, Jon sighs, takes a long pull, holds it, and exhales heavily. The smoke curls thickly in the air between them before dissipating. It smells terrible. Before Martin can even track the motion, he snubs out the glowing end of his cigarette on an unmarked patch of skin on the tender inside of his opposite wrist. Jon doesn’t flinch.

Martin snatches the offending hand away successfully this time and deftly plucks the quickly cooling cigarette from Jon’s shaking fingers.

“Christ, Jon!” he yelps, halfway between angry and afraid. 

After throwing the wretched thing blindly over his shoulder, Martin gently turns Jon’s wrist and arm palm up, looking for the new burn. He finds it easily enough. It’s blistered. Martin’s eyes travel up the length of Jon’s arm. His brow furrows and his stomach twists violently into knots. Jon’s arm is littered with angry, horizontal wounds all in various stages of knitting back together. Some are deep and bleeding sluggishly, some pink and swollen, while others still have already faded to raised discolorations that Martin would have assumed were ages old if he didn’t know better. There’s blood on Jon’s cheeks and neck too, insinuating a purpose here that Martin is desperately trying to ignore. Everything is coppery and slick and horrible and Martin feels like being sick.

Instead, he repeats the delicate examination of Jon’s other arm, taking his hand and slowly pulling it across his body so Martin can see. The situation is about the same. Martin lets go of Jon’s hand and moves to take the point of his chin. Ever so gently, Martin tilts his head up, down, side to side, looking for a wound he knows has long since healed. All he finds is the faintest twin to Daisy’s. Satisfied as he can be with his cursory examination, Martin turns Jon’s face towards himself. 

At that, Jon’s gaze finally snaps from middle distance to meet Martin’s own. Martin shifts to properly cradle Jon’s face between his hands. Jon’s hands reach up slowly and grasp his wrists. His grip is loose and weak. For a while, they just stare into each other. After what seems like an eternity, Jon’s eyelids slide shut and his face crumples. Tears gather at the corners of Jon’s eyes and start to roll down his cheeks, dripping onto his neck, carving rusty swathes through the gore still caked there. His grip on Martin tightens as he begins to sob. His shoulders shake and his chest heaves. It seems like he’s still trying to be quiet and it breaks Martin’s heart. As if he’s been given permission, Martin pulls Jon tightly and swiftly to his chest, burying his face in the unruly mop of his hair. It’s not long before Martin starts crying too. He stays quiet about it, trying to hold himself together for Jon’s sake. 

“God, Martin, I’m sorry,” Jon croaks out once his breathing has evened out. “I’m sorry, but I had to know. I don’t think I actually wanted to, but I had to know. I’m sorry.”

It’s been getting more difficult, lately. Jon doesn’t sleep, doesn’t eat — makes it quite clear he doesn’t want to. They snap at each other often. Jon’s tone slips harsh and caustic, an echo of a dynamic they both know they’ve moved past. Martin drifts after they fight, sometimes. He’ll sit silently in the kitchen for hours, or go on walks that last for days. When he resurfaces, Jon will apologize. Martin will apologize back. They don’t look at each other when they do it and they don’t talk about it again.

Even now, as entangled as they are, more present than either Jon or Martin has felt in days; neither can shake the feeling that they’re losing each other.

Martin cards his fingers through Jon’s hair, pulling him impossibly closer. Martin can see himself in the mirror shards on the ground. He thinks his eyes are different, somehow, from how they used to be.

“I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first fic (feedback encouraged!) and its lowkey a vent fic, yikes! anyway, here's to creative outlets. 
> 
> please let me know if I need to tag anything differently or if i should add tags! 
> 
> thanks for reading and take care of yourselves <3
> 
> come yell at me on tumblr @mulberry-kit


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